Saturday, June 25, 2005

The Cracked and crazy

The cracked and crazy chain smokers
Haunts the demands for my attention
The tempters rites enabling an escape
As something in me creates a gang
Till the anger needing outlet
Accepts the curtains falling
Streets hawking, working, talking
The gossip kind of habitual jokes
Beggars, touts and hawkers screams
Gaining my respect and admiration
Something in them
My childhood identified with
Something about the courage and strength
The shit that stinks like mine
Hawking commodity or body, working or in plea
With a beggars chant of triumph

Saturday, June 18, 2005

sauced like a moan

Breading badly, stammer, no words
Imagine the aphid on a plant sap
Adlibs all the loosened points
I will make the deed slow
Every phrase unhurried
Sauced like a moan…
The vowel grinding a e i o u
Answers the knock at the door
Pie, pleasure, the sudden thing
Leisure, fruits, an alter of swamps
Man, mum, all endearment terms
Likened to known juice and butter
to shack the corn of it clothes
with the workmanship sculpted
The arrays of your pleasure point
The impressive display and collection
In the chalkboard `cunt-esy' of tongues
Dialect of meaning only I can assemble
I like the base-equal size to a bib
Thinking about charting your geography
Tongue cropping, teeth plotting the site plan
Uh! All my life is aerial bound
I feel the stomach getting jelly
With the agitation of unhurried hands
I feel the full endowed roundness
Unaccustomed to my hungry gaze
Could I bore through that brackish bowl?
Ceremony through the ritual of space
Could I chisel through the channels?
Through milk mashed creams and ethics
Can I go into the Cray spot now?
Can I take the cheese of the trap?
Pod the cocoa of its pleasure juice
Uh! Or can I put the cassava back
Into the alluvia of her soil
I could, but… No not now
I am committed to the slimy cleft
Not the crevice behind the brown hair
like an animal related to untangle
Expelling fertilizers without contact
Something of bliss than civic
Savoring the gift of my after play
Uh! I believe i can harvest you right

Sunday, June 12, 2005

I dream of micheal jackson

I heard the man scream -
the wordings shaping his mouth,
I stare trying to see his voice -
Vague attempt to seize something from the void
with words and words and words inaudible,
.....Yet hearing answers already shaped in my mind,
snatching the words out of Dreams,
beating upon my deafness
-----And suddenly the…
The silent ebbs.
I realize that the image in the portrait was gone,
the portrait was gone,
shadows were creeping around me,
till it fill every where with itself, I thought peace could come,

but a noise
intruded, alien and eerie drawing me within it fold,

I found myself,
in a grave yard familiar to me,
were many head stones had no names,
in front of me there was a nearly dug grave,

I tried to look away but I
could not, I was being drawn to look at it
as if my legs had a will of it own,

rushing me drawing me demanding my attention

......and lying within the grave was a man,
-face expressionless, mouth half
open, he was strongly built,
----there was an odd odor, not strong but
remained in my nostril the smell of the family grapes, grapes? ---

Suddenly a chunk from my past rushed at me, for a moment I was too
stunned, I thought my heart had forgotten to breathe, it was I but I
looked like Michael Jackson with bleached face;
a black man from outer space-
And at the head stone… The name jumped right at me like Tyson's right
fist in the middle of my tummy
Seems I could hear the stone the field shouting it,
I saw a shovel leaning on it edge, I picked it up, grabbed the handle
and swung it at the statute with such force that I moved with it and
saw myself the second time butt down first before I knew I was down,
but I stood up, the weed I was and continue to swing it again and
again, harder and harder as I could, I can feel the force of each
blow jarring through me, rattling my teeth, the shovel glinting out
sparks began to fly as the handle gave way, I continue till at least
as all human my energy ebbed way, leaving me deflated, for the
longest time I stood there all alone in the world, I had no
appointment , no one waiting for me or worried were I was, standing
there with fierce tears running down my face, I look at the grave
stone still intact the name still there as if polished anew, looking
at me in big bold letters `nigger" cut into the stone forall time a part of me the real heritage of slaves
( you can't change your color)

what my write-up does ( warning)

In my studies… there is no such moment like soberness,the churchy ideas cannot help you, because they are part of the corporate community the words could not offer it, only the self will, you will only find here the lust for initiation, into the spirit realm, The ritual of listening and could make you the true son.
Let me explain-In the past, when a child is old enough for initiation, he is taken to the forest were the chief priest lives, (a special and feared place set apart for such a purpose), it could be the first time the child was there, and there could be things, such as the totems of worships, things the child has been taught to revere, these things will be there with him, things that brought the native instinct to its sharpest lines, the fear and hunger for being, And then there is the initiation of blood, as each of the participant mingle their blood with the gourd of worship,Here the child leant the art of our lineage,the myth handed down from generation to generation, songs and stories that embodied the value of its possession,The assurance of the invincible and non verbal, help us to see the genuine face of the dark man...that is what my study does-initiate you from its beginning till the final chapter

Saturday, June 11, 2005

i am omosun .. 2

Imagining the scenes surrounding the name, is like a painters act, like poetry… once you get the ingredient down you work on them, you can change the word but never the spiritThe study though imbued with religion themes expresses my own personal faith and opinions about my lineage, the fascination of the unknown that has been a part of my life ever since I learned the meaning on my name, "omosun"My name gave me a hold to what the world has lost, a possession that could make me a god, the "omosun" that is true to the juju deity, I claimed it because I alone have it to share, with the spirit possessions still intact, as I try to recapture its power through my poetry.Believe me, the incarnations could work on me as I write, till I am no longer who I thought I was, and the spiritual values in its institution will no longer be confined to the shrine…it will creep over the globe through the work of my handsMy name could give me the power to persuade, because the voice is in me, the thunder of the son

i am omosun

in my studies I could visit the juju ceremonies, memories the acts and then find the words for the poetry, Reading the edited works is like reading poetry for the first time, the collection rekindle the image of innocence as the victim of circumstances branded on us by the foreign culture Perceived in the eyes of a young Nigerian poet here we see the great re-birth from a son whose circle has been ancestralTry to explore the theme in the topics, try to read through the lines and see the words that has intrigued poets and writers all over the centuries, Read the totems of worship, the fact in the story with the words used to describe them and ask yourself how they fit into the lineage

Saturday, June 04, 2005

The wooded comb..part 1 (short story )

In the early morning before nature wakes, that interval before the owl hoot and a cuckoo alarm, when men still longs for their women, we start out at twilight

The clouds in its blanket of blues hangs over our head, a red glow shows were the sun was hidden, and as we walk we can hear the lone some howl of a dog across the field.

The unending ritual, the endless rows of Quakers marching to the plots, young maidens strolling to the stream or the men to factory, stumbling into one another testing the mist,

In the familiar early morning scent and breeze, I could hear curses and snatches of conversation, the science of tongues at its best along the village wood

The trees stands out like accuses, the weeds seems to bow as we walk by, the wind have its own voice, applauded by the clapping leaves, I feel the chill from the contact of the cold air and low branches along the narrow parts, the flesh against nature green

There were fewer of us in today expenditure; for security reasons we walked in a group, ever since we heard about the missing individuals in the Okija forest,

There is a woman near me, the perfect figure of a working nomad outlines in the morning mist, she is wearing a patchwork of a gown, that did not conceal her small breast

I look at the dozen plaits fanning out on her head, the afro-style decorated by cowries, and I imagined my hands on them…kneading

There is someone behind me, he seems to want to walk in front of me, and trying to block the view I am having of the maiden hips in sway for me, but I am a weed too, blocking every opening in the narrow lane,

We have finally made it into the wood, the area at the edge of the hills; I took my machete of its sling and went through the tall grass, making a part through the new working site

Something is moving on the bush to the left, murmurs from the group lead to hurried footfalls, and the instant a pheasant screeched most were in panic

A snake I suppose, but I am certain there are worse dangers in such parts; the stories of lost kinsmen along this area are no joke.

I saw a ten-foot-long black mamba the instance the others shrunk back. I cut off its head the exact moment it strikes; I cut the writhing body into sections. The action were born into me, the instinct on a nomad, the knowingness that man is above all animals

The sun is rising as we finally made it to the farmland, the maiden and children went along the moat to the stream, and we the men went uphill,